


Unspeakable

by Pernilla_Writes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mild Gore, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pernilla_Writes/pseuds/Pernilla_Writes
Summary: Silence was not something he could find in his travels, forests were loud, birds chirped in the trees, streams split the earth, and the wind breezed through the thick foliage. Cities were worse, bellowing screams in the markets offering wares, hammers on anvils, sharp and piercing, children laughing, parents calling after them, the crowd’s incessant chatter, drunkards banging their mugs down on tables, all of it, deafening.Jaskier had one of those voices that could be picked out in a crowd, he was loud and full of words, always had something more to say, a new thread of thought to follow, and filled any space with some more noise, no matter how bursting it already was, Geralt had no idea how he did that. The Witcher felt he had to fight for each word, each sound out of his lips was a struggle against the weight of the air around him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 135





	Unspeakable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Symbolic_Deviant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Symbolic_Deviant/gifts).



> This work is for my friend @SharkfaceOhAhAh on twitter, without him this wouldn't exist :3

The world had always been unbearably loud to Geralt’s ears, since the trials his hearing had been so sharp and sensitive that he could pick out the sounds of footsteps from all over the keep, curled up in his small, uncomfortable bed, trying to push everything away, to find some quiet.

It was not to be.

Silence was not something he could find in his travels, forests were loud, birds chirped in the trees, streams split the earth, and the wind breezed through the thick foliage. Cities were worse, bellowing screams in the markets offering wares, hammers on anvils, sharp and piercing, children laughing, parents calling after them, the crowd’s incessant chatter, drunkards banging their mugs down on tables, all of it, deafening.

Jaskier had one of those voices that could be picked out in a crowd, he was loud and full of words, always had something more to say, a new thread of thought to follow, and filled any space with some more noise, no matter how bursting it already was, Geralt had no idea how he did that. The Witcher felt he had to fight for each word, each sound out of his lips was a struggle against the weight of the air around him.

And then the fight happened, and Geralt filled the silence while, for once, Jaskier was reduced to a whisper.

It had felt good, finally getting the last word, not having to struggle to get the sounds out, to win the war after so many battles lost.

But then months passed, and the forest was still loud, the city stifling, but he did not hear Jaskier.

—

When he saw him again it was in a tavern, they often met that way. The bard was sitting on an old chair in a corner, the smell of rotting wood was stronger than the sweet oils Jaskier covered himself in, but Geralt could still smell him. His hair was perfectly neat, his doublet bright yellow, and his hands looked soft as he turned the pegs on his lute, tuning it to perfection.

But Jaskier himself made no sound.

It was unsettling, the bard was always humming, talking, singing. Geralt had seen him tune before and Jaskier would accompany the tweaking of his instrument with that of his voice.

And then blue eyes met gold ones, and the hands holding the lute went slack, the wood made a hollow sound as it hit the ground, the strings vibrated at the impact. Geralt got closer, picked up the instrument, and offered it to Jaskier.

“You were right, I was unfair last time. I’m sorry.”

The words weren’t perfect, but they were easy to say, fitting the void left by Jaskier’s voice, and Geralt waited for the other to accept them with his own.

But nothing was said, Jaskier took back his lute and looked up at Geralt, his eyes were wet, and his lips trembled, but they did not move.

“I- I said I’m sorry.”

Geralt tried again, maybe his words were lost to the crowd, he never had a voice quite like Jaskier’s, demanding for people to listen to it. But once again, the bard did not answer, he kept silent, looking up at Geralt.

The Witcher could smell- despair, hurt, loss, want, so many different notes of misery, but he couldn’t hear crying, not a sob, or a whine, only the beating of the other’s heart, fast and irregular, and the rushing of air to his lungs, shuttering and incomplete.

Why didn’t Jaskier say anything?

Geralt was startled back to reality by the bard’s hand on his wrist, warm and familiar, the smallest smile on his lips that did not reach his eyes or his scent. Jaskier nodded his head and tugged at Geralt’s arm, so the Witcher followed, the stairs creaked each time Geralt’s boots came down on them, each step painfully long and grating. The door whined, it’s hinges in need of oiling, some other bard had taken residence downstairs and the sound of her voice filled the air in a muffled melody, Jaskier flinched, it was one of his songs.

“Will you speak to me now?” Geralt asked, his brows furrowed and a scowl on his face. Was this it? Was that argument too much for Jaskier to accept his apologies?

Jaskier pursed his lips at the question, and slowly shook his head, his eyes closed in defeat.

And Geralt couldn’t take it.

He stormed out of the room, in what seemed like a blur of motions and sounds he was on Roach, riding out of town, to the swamp.

Words were hard for him, they were a constant fight, and that apology was the easiest surrender he ever gave. And Jaskier- he who had such an ease with it, a mastery that Geralt could never hope to measure up to- he had decided to treat the Witcher the same as he had been treated, with silence.

And it wasn’t fair. Because Geralt couldn’t help it, he couldn’t make his voice fill the space, he couldn’t let himself be loud, and Jaskier never could be quiet for him, during a hunt or a long week of insomnia. He talked in his sleep, hummed as he walked, sang as he bathed, moaned as he ate, and now he was silent as Geralt apologised to him.

The night passed in all its chaos, the chirping of bats and rushing of water, the stink of muck and groans of drowners; then came familiar sounds, the trashing of something in the water, monsters growling and snarling, the smell of blood seeping into the air.

Geralt ran into the sounds, slipping out of meditation easily after years of practice, there was a bright yellow doublet, he could faintly pick up the smell of scented oils, and he could see soft skin stained red.

He charged, the growls that scratched at his ears were shut down one by one as his silver sword slashing trough rotting flesh, the foul smell of guts and necrosis reached his nose, putrid innards gushed out of swollen bellies until no one but Geralt was left standing.

He looked down, there was a yellow shape on the ground, and it was breathing, and it smelled like home.

He crouched down next to it, hands frantically searching for injuries and finding many, none lethal, but enough to have his bard bleed to death.

He carried Jaskier out of the swampy waters to his small camp, patched up wounds in a practiced manner, just like he had tended to Eskel’s hundreds of times in their younger years, and then he waited. The bitter smell of salve calmed Geralt, that scent meant the battle was over, he was taking care of his wounds, he was fine. But this time it wasn’t fine, because Jaskier had followed him after ignoring him at the inn, he had been attacked after following Geralt, and still did not call for help.

Jaskier did not call for him.

It felt like a betrayal, that someone with a voice like his could choose not to use it out of spite. And Geralt could not understand the anger behind it, the hurt that must have pushed the other to refuse to be heard.

The night passed like that, in the silent moonlight and amidst the loud bog. Wind and water shouted in his ears, and the brightness of the dawn burned at his eyes.

Jaskier woke up slowly, his breath and his heartbeat the only sounds from his body, and Geralt couldn’t wait to ask for anything else, it was egoistical and it was ugly.

“Why didn’t you call for me? Why did you refuse to talk to me? You looked, you followed, but you never gave anything back.”

It was a lot, all words that blurred together in a growl, and Jaskier had to answer, had to say something to that.

Jaskier bit his lips and cried.

It was as silent as ice and as destructive as fire, his nose was running and his mouth trembled wordlessly and his eyelashes dripped with salty tears. A thought pervaded Geralt’s mind, maybe Jaskier didn’t choose to stay silent.

Geralt grabbed the other’s cheeks and forced his mouth open, there was no tongue, the inside of his cheeks was full of cuts and scars, the Witcher felt that if he were able to look down Jaskier’s throat he would find something similar.

Whoever had done this had a personal vendetta against the bard and Geralt would kill them, because they had taken something from him; the sweet voice of his bard, the melodies, chatter, gossip, screams, moans- he would never hear them again, and he felt furious.

A soft hand pushed his away, freeing Jaskier from his hold, the bard touched his own face, hurt clear in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt said once more, Jaskier hugged him, it was almost painful, the sounds and smells of the swamp couldn’t cover those of his bard’s raspy breaths, the taste of his tears on the Witcher’s tongue, it was torture, but they both needed the other, like a drowned man needed air, and each kiss was a lungful after an eternity under the surface, the salt of tears turned sweet, the cold dampness of their clothes grew warm, their fingers were intertwined, trying to stitch themselves together, join them as one.

The bright yellow doublet came off and so did the leather armour, it was cold, they were warm, so warm Geralt believed for a moment they could be like molten metal, bright in the soft light of a new day.

Geralt felt, he saw, he tasted, he smelled and he heard, most of all, he loved his bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on twitter @PernillaWrites for more!


End file.
